


Trapped

by write_light



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_light/pseuds/write_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has Dean trapped, and there's no way out.  On the plus side, Sam's getting a great view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spnwriterlounge's 1000-word fic challenge.

Their motel room was dingy, very much in need of a cleaning, both physically and spiritually, but a different darkness came over it now.

Crowley was alone.

"My predictable boys. How I love you for eating bacon waffles _every single day_."

He left his gift for Dean, wincing as he hung it between Sam's plaid flannel and Dean's other jeans.

"You _do_ need to learn about style, though. Both of you."

The room lightened as the sulfur sifted down into the deep shag.

***

Dean emerged from the bathroom, his towel sagging below his hipbone and drawing Sam's eyes down with it.

"Dude, up here."

"Yeah. uh-" Sam cleared his throat. "It's just, last night you were - never mind. Get dressed. Two interviews after lunch."

"Jeans it is then," Dean smiled, happy that the case required long interviews in nearly every bar in town. "But first, we hit that diner again. NO ONE has bacon waffles like they do. Did you know they're half price on Sundays?"

Dean was gesticulating with his towel, causing his lower parts to swing in the breeze, and Sam to sweat.

"Just put your jeans on, please."

***

At 1:00pm, after the second whiskey at the tavern and the three large OJs he'd had with brunch, it was time.

"Gotta go, Sam. Can you handle this alone?"

...

Mild cursing, at first barely audible over the jukebox, and then louder, distracted Sam. He tried to keep the interview on track, but the witness, a Miss Kitty Catkin, was petulantly waiting for Dean to return in his very snug jeans. A loud crash from the restroom got Sam's attention.

"I'll just go see if he's okay…"

***

"They won't come off!"

"The zipper's stuck?"

"Among other things."

"Undo the button then, and slip them down."

"I TRIED THAT!"

"Here, let me."

"OW! Sam, knock it off. They've got me by the…" –here his voice became softer and almost fearful- "…by the junk."

Sam tugged harder, just as the bouncer came to check. All he could see was Sam's fingers in Dean's belt loops, tugging downward vigorously while Dean moaned.

***

"Banned? How the hell are we supposed to interview people now?"

"Sam, I need to pee. These things are getting tighter."

"Dude, are those even your jeans?"

Sam turned Dean around, noting how they _really_ fit Dean's ass.

"You won't like this," Sam said. "The label's _FRM_. The pockets have pentagrams sewn on them. And little demon horns."

***

"Sam, NO! If the knife and the hacksaw didn't work, the flare won't. God I need to go."

"You need something else, by the look of it."

Dean's swelling cock was flatteringly outlined. Somehow, the pants had room for that, if nothing else.

Dean wedged his hand in his front pocket and withdrew a tiny pink condom clearly labeled "XS."

"Try the rest," Sam snickered and pointed helpfully at Dean's ass.

From a rear pocket, Dean produced a small black wallet. A fake ID fell out, Crowley's smiling face on it.

"I think that's his actual birth date."

"And this," Dean said, pulling a crackling parchment from the other pocket.

They unfolded the map and pondered it while Dean crossed his legs, rocking back and forth.

"SAM! I do _not_ want to wet myself in demon jeans!"

"It's an old churchyard and mausoleum, an hour away. Look, why not just…? Get in the shower, rinse it out as best you-."

Dean's glare darkened the room more than Crowley's presence had.

"Front left pocket, then. Hope that's a key I'm seeing."

***

"A bumpy dirt road?" Dean griped as he sat with his legs tightly crossed. "Seriously?"

Sam went as fast as he dared, skidding to a stop at the gate as Dean leapt out. The key fit the mausoleum's heavy doors; inside, a weak light shone down the center of the passageways, leaving the niches in quiet gloom. Dean hopped from one foot to another.

"Now what?!" he said, squeaking.

"Now you get my son's bones out of there for me, you whingeing baby," came Crowley's voice from the shadows. "I'd love to get them myself, but they're cursed – for demons anyhow. Seems my son went down on a ship full of the most devout Catholics ever heard of. So _fetch_."

"And the pants come off?"

"Oh, I _do_ hope so. I'd like them back," Crowley noted calmly.

"Couldn't you have just asked us?" Sam interrupted.

"The longer you live, Sam, the more fun you need in your life."

***

"You don't need them all, do you?"

"Every last knucklebone."

Dean stirred his hand through the dust in the niche.

"You see, Dean? A distraction does wonders. It's kept you from complaining about your bladder for a good twenty minutes, and watching your tight little butt has kept Sam from talking entirely, for which we are both grateful."

Dean felt something, and pulled it out. "It's a tooth," he said blankly.

"The last piece of the puzzle. Toss it in the sack."

"And the pants?"

"Right now? Knee deep in remains?"

"He's got a point, Dean."

***

Dean was in the rectory bathroom for nearly fifteen minutes. Sam slipped in too, eventually, shrugging helplessly at the minister. Dean was in his boxers, and the jeans were-

"Gone – I was in the middle of-"

"So why are you still-"

"I don’t know, Sam, mind of its own?"

"The minister's outside," Sam said, whispering suddenly.

"Be right out!" Dean yelled.

***

Ultimately, it wasn't the sacrilege of stolen vestments from the tiny closet below the sink, or the vandalism as they broke through the church window. What really bothered Dean was the way he'd lost his balance as Sam hoisted him up, and that Sam hadn't complained about getting a faceful of Dean's hard cock -- not then, not in the churchyard, sprinting for the Impala, not on the ride home, and not for the past three hours in front of the TV as Dean angrily downed burger after burger.

"Come ON!" he yelled finally.

"I'm not complaining, Dean."  



End file.
